Vestigial
by torriebug
Summary: John Hamish Watson is a man of unbreaking resolve - and he is breaking. Post-Reichenbach angst.


_While reading this, Ihighly suggest listening to "Timshel" by Mumford and Sons. Enjoy!_

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><p><em>Cold is the water<em>  
><em>It freezes your already cold mind<em>  
><em>Already cold, cold mind<em>  
><em>And death is at your doorstep<em>  
><em>And it will steal your innocence<em>  
><em>But it will not steal your substance<em>

_But you are not alone in this_  
><em>And you are not alone in this<em>  
><em>As brothers we will stand and we'll hold your hand<em>  
><em>Hold your hand<em> 

The bathroom fills with stream only minutes after John makes up a bath. It has been weeks since he's taken an actual shower – these days, his leg made most things impossible. _Psychosomatic_, Sherlock would have scoffed, had he been there. Alive. Breathing.

John takes a ragged breath, briefly closing his eyes as his heart thuds harshly against his ribs. Sometimes it takes hours for this pounding to dissipate. Sometimes he can stop it after a few seconds. Today is one of those days and without much more of a problem, he slips into the steaming bath.

The water is hot, burning hot, almost painful on his skin. In the back of his mind, he realizes he should wait until it cools but standing hurts, moving hurts, so instead John lies back against the tile, slowly rubbing his aching leg as he tries to clear the hurricane in his head.

It had been a month exactly since Sherlock Holmes died. The man who John grew to care for and look after and yes, even maybe love, disappeared from his life with hardly more than a whisper. John remembers the night as a blur – hoarse yelling and Moriarty pushing and the crashing of water in the background. John had been the one to identify the body and even in death, Sherlock's lips had been twisted into a disdainful scowl as if he found the act of dying utterly boring.

"Damn you," John breathes, wincing, as images of Sherlock's prone form rise to his mind. John clenches his hands and sinks further into the water. Since The Fall, as John bitterly calls it, he has done everything in his power to rid Sherlock of his mind. He's delved into his work, into cases, even tried smoking before realizing how utterly revolting it was. He has taken numerous women to bed and found every time that the sorrow stopped him short. Sherlock would have been jealous. He'd stopped seeing women two weeks ago, giving it up as a lost cause. Sarah had tried, yes, but whenever they spoke John was reminded of how Sherlock had saved her – saved them both – from death during the Blind Banker case. These days, John just isn't much of a people person. He finds he doesn't mind.

Hours pass before John realizes that there is someone else in the room.

"Get out, I'm having a bath," John mutters, but opens his eyes to peer at the shadow anyway. He can't muster the decency to feel embarrassed, not with an electric pain of anguish shooting him straight through the chest.

"You're shivering," Sherlock notes, leaning against the back of the door. He's still in that damn coat with the collar brushing his cheekbones and the scarf around his throat. He's wearing his leather gloves and his shoes are still on. He looks exactly like John remembers.

"I'm not cold," John says, and he isn't. He lifts a hand and watches it tremble in mute fascination. His fingers are wrinkled and bloated. Sherlock throws him an unamused look.

"Get out of the bath, John," he commands, uncrossing his arms and straightening. "I'll be in the living room."

John debates not listening to him and hisses a low curse when another shot goes through him at the thought. Sherlock walks through the door (yes, through, and John realizes at this point he might be a little crazy) and John struggles out of the bath, shaking hands pulling at the water stopper. He dries off and dresses in record time and stumbles into the sitting room where Sherlock is perched in his chair.

"Am I crazy?" John asks through chattering teeth. He stares at Sherlock, who is giving him a mildly concerned look. "Am I crazy, Sherlock, because right now I'm seeing you and you're – you can't – be here." The words don't come easily from his throat; his muscles are seizing up as if wanting to stop them from escaping. As if they want to deny it.

Sherlock taps his fingers in that painfully familiar way of his that says when he's nervous and doesn't want to show it. He stands and, surprisingly, takes John's hand. "Sit down," he says in a quiet voice, pulling John onto the couch. They sit in a long silence, and John doesn't take his eyes off of Sherlock in fear that he will disappear the moment he does. Sherlock avoids his gaze and instead focuses on pulling a stray blanket around John's hunched shoulders. "Idiot," he says fondly, brushing a water droplet from John's cheek. "I left because I thought you could handle it."

"I am handling it," John whispers, grasping his long fingers tightly. "I'm still breathing, aren't it?"

"You know what I mean," Sherlock snaps, then immediately softens. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, and John's eyelids are getting heavy. He feels Sherlock's other hand taking his pulse and hears a disapproving noise in his ear. "Call Lestrade, John. Call an ambulance."

"You do it," he frowns, letting his head drop against Sherlock's shoulder. "You've got a phone." Breathing seems easier when they touch and John takes full advantage of Sherlock's preoccupied state. He manages to lie down without much pain, laying his head in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock doesn't protest; his eyes are drawn tight in worry and John closes his own to avoid seeing it.

"I miss you," John whispers into the silence, and there is a small pause before he feels Sherlock's hands brushing through his hair.

"You need a haircut," Sherlock says, and John thinks that maybe that means _I miss you, too_ but this is Sherlock so he isn't sure.

"Are you going away?" John questions after a few seconds, gasping at the throbbing that echoes his words. Sherlock's hands still in his hair.

"I have to. You can't keep seeing me, John. I'm dead." John moans, a pained little noise, at Sherlock's words. He screws his eyes shut tighter. Sherlock ignores this, pressing on and continues with his ministrations. "You are living, _breathing_, John, because I died. And I brought Moriarty with me. I did that for you."

"You did that for yourself. Always proving that you're a genius," John feels wetness on his lashes, "you giant clot." Sherlock laughs softly at this, and John's lips pull into a sad little smile. God, he misses this: the smiles, the laughs, the insults. Everything.

"John!" a voice calls from somewhere far away. Sherlock lifts his head briefly, uttering a soft noise of contemplation, before returning his gaze to John's face.

"Look at me, John," Sherlock says, putting a hand on his cheek. The war veteran opens his eyes slowly, staring up at him in dread. "I did it for you to be safe, not get hypothermia and die in a bathtub. Now I'm going away and I'm not coming back." Sherlock's tone is hard and leaves no room for argument, but John knows he has to try.

"Sherlock—" he gasps, grasping the other man's hand quickly. "Please, stay."

"John Watson, open this door," the same voice calls, and John recalls briefly that its Mycroft's voice laced with worry and slight panic. Ah, the surveillance. John was never as good as Sherlock at finding those bloody cameras and he'd given up on trying months ago.

"I can't, John. Now do me a favor and don't do anything stupid. Again." Sherlock's lips twist into a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. His eyes are blank. John holds tighter to his fingers and when they begin to fade, panic envelopes him. He isn't ready. No no no, God no, he isn't ready.

"Sherlock, I am begging you, don't you dare fucking leave me-"

"Miss you," Sherlock murmurs, just a whisper, with his gaze locked onto John's. The door flies open and John doesn't look up.

"Miss you more," John says brokenly, and Sherlock is replaced with Mycroft, peering uneasily into his face. "Hullo, Mycroft," John greets lowly, knowing he must look a wreck. There is wetness on his cheeks and he is shivering and little sobs are escaping his throat. He swallows thickly, closing his eyes. "He was here, you know. Did you see him?"

Mycroft straightens, staring down at John. His lips disappear into a thin line. "No, John," he says, gently, like he's afraid John will break. And he just might. "No, I didn't see him. I'm sorry."

John doesn't answer, only closes his eyes and tries very hard to remember what it felt like to have Sherlock with him.

The throbbing comes back and this time, it doesn't go away.

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><p><em>That being said...who's ready for reichenbach? My tumblr is on my homepage, drop me a message. :)<em>


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